


Likeness

by Stakebait



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-26
Updated: 2010-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-09 17:53:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stakebait/pseuds/Stakebait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You meet the weirdest people at Burning Man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Likeness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lm](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lm).



> For the Ethan ficathon

  
The nice thing about the witch camp at Burning Man is that there was no shade. Laid out beside the tent, Oz's muscles stretched and melted like salt water taffy. He could feel subtle shifts lengthen his limbs and his joints loosen without his permission – it was like the wolf-change, almost, but slowed down to the tempo of a plant turning to the sun.

Maybe, thought Oz, plants were as scared by their transformations as he used to be.

A drizzle of cold rained down his spine and he yelped, enjoying the surprise.

"Sunscreen," Jamie's voice explained from above his right shoulder. "You're turning a lovely shade of ow."

Oz shrugged without bothering to turn over. "Creature of the night," he spoke into the dim intersection of his forearm and the blanket. "Not much for melanin."

The drops of oil had turned warm as blood. Oz was relieved when long, thin fingers smoothed them away into the angles of his shoulder blades. The hands moved lower, hesitated. It was a massive effort to move his melted muscles, but Oz managed to inch his thighs apart.

His head was cooler. A shadow had fallen across him, visible even through closed eyelids, like the shape where a lightbulb had gone out. Oz noticed the breeze through the half-crushed spikes of his hair.

"Next time," an English voice observed, "you should use a stencil. A brand new method of body modification."

Oz rolled over and opened his eyes.

"Haven't used up the old ones yet," he said mildly.

The stranger's eyes traveled the length of Oz's naked body, unmarked except for scars. "I can see that," he observed. The mouth was deadpan, but there was something laughing in the man's eyes. Not necessarily a nice laughter – Oz thought this guy was not much in the habit of sharing the joke.

Oz sat up, slowly, till his eyes were just about level with the faded crotch of the man's jeans. "Can't say the same," he remarked.

The interloper promptly crouched down to his level. "Nudity is for the young and beautiful."

"Young or beautiful," Oz corrected.

The stranger grinned a wicked grin. "I'm not young."

Oz knelt up and reached for the collar of the stranger's shirt.

"I suppose that answers one question," he said, more to himself than to Oz. "Call me Ethan."

"Oz."

Behind Oz, another shadow rose and diminished as Jamie faded back into the tent. "Catch you later, man."

Oz nodded, not taking his eyes from the half-uncovered collarbone. "Moonrise."

****

Whatever Ethan had expected when Oz began to take liberties with his clothing, it wasn't swimming in an improvised pond. But he hadn't any real objection. The day was hot and cloudless, his skin felt far more awake free of the endless dust, and the boy was… intriguing. Not what he'd expected. He, Ethan Rayne, who made a point of never expecting anything.

Oz's fingers moved over the flat place on Ethan's upper arm. "Hurt."

It wasn't a question, which might be why Ethan was foolish enough to answer. "Used to be a tattoo."

Too late, Ethan cursed himself and braced for questions, but Oz just nodded and turned aside. "Cool. This space intentionally left blank."

Ethan quirked an eyebrow and reached around to grab the boy's cock under the cool, muddy water. "Ceci n'est pas un pipe?" he asked.

Oz chuckled and disengaged, stepping out of Ethan's grip but bumping his hip bone gently into the circling arm to show it wasn't resented. "No, peeps are those scary marshmallow ducks. Did you know they glow in the dark?"

"You're taking the piss," Ethan said, distracted.

"Yeah," Oz smiled. "But Jamie bought it. He stayed up hours watching them."

"Am I stepping on any toes, there?" Ethan asked.

Oz raised an eyebrow right back at him, like a very far off mirror waiting for the light to reach it. "Would that stop you?"

"No," Ethan admitted.

"No," Oz answered, and it took Ethan a moment to realize that was more than just an echo.

"He's not your lover?" Ethan pressed, harder than was usual for him. It was rare enough for him to ask once.

Oz shrugged. "He's my ride, my roommate, my occasional touching guy. Mostly I'm his guru."

Ethan breathed out a soft sigh of disappointment. "You actually believe in all this…" he trailed off in mock-politeness, but the word "bullshit" hung quite audibly in the air nonetheless.

Oz shrugged again. Ethan decided he could get quite used to the movement – something about the way his bones moved over each other, like a dance where the partners never quite touch. "Meant guitar."

Ethan went on the attack, wondering why it had taken him so long to do so. "So he doesn't know you're a werewolf?"

Oz answered as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. "'Course. That's why I'm here. I teach the Wolf Workshop."

Ethan's derisive laughter had rather an hysterical edge. "Americans," he said, "is there nothing you won't talk about?"

Oz gave it some thought. "Haven't heard much about Luxembourg lately." He slung an arm around Ethan's shoulder, his cupped hand so natural that it took Ethan a whole second to realize he'd been splashed.

"You dare?" Ethan demanded.

Oz grinned. "Pretty much the idea."

If he couldn't knock Oz off balance with words, Ethan suddenly decided, it might be more amusing to take a literal approach. He hooked his leg around Oz's ankles and tumbled him over into the shallows. Oz surfaced and shook his head, sending bright drops in every direction, like sparks.

Ethan gave a predatory smile, "No mercy."

****

Halfway through the silent meditation, Oz felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle and fight to grow longer. Someone was watching – him, specifically, not just the circle, as curious drifters had been doing all night. He didn't turn to look. He didn't mind the interruption – his meditation was a fluid thing, the monks had taught him, like a changing skin or a creek whose rocky intrusions give shape to its dance. But the fire was bright, and he was night blind, and there was no point. He recognized Ethan's scent under the drifting sage smoke -- candle wax, dark beer, and something else, like burnt sugar, delicious and wrong.

Oz tapped the nearest guy on the shoulder. "Start the drumming again," he murmured, unfolded himself to his feet, and set off into the darkness.

He ran into crisp linen and laughter before his eyes could adjust. Strong, wiry arms closed around him, and Oz leaned into the embrace.

"Closer than you thought, was I?" Ethan's teasing had an edge to it, like a wolf sighting the weakest deer to bring her down.

Oz huffed warm breath over Ethan's throat. "Could be closer."

Ethan stepped back, and now Oz could see the faint look of surprise and respect dawning on his face. "What about your… students?"

Oz smiled. "I'm unpredictable. It's part of my charm."

Ethan's smile quivered into existence in the corner of his mouth. "Oh, yes," he agreed. "Indeed it is."

****

There was certainly something, Ethan reflected, about getting fucked standing up by a werewolf while the full moon glinted off his hairless chest. Something primal, that deserved savage face paint and tree bark digging into his back. But this was fun too, for its very wrongness, revelers passing mere feet from the shadows that didn't quite hide them enough.

Oz's eyes fluttered open and he came with a gasp. Ethan, who had stymied Oz's wordless attempts at reciprocation by the simple expedient of grabbing his wrists, smiled too.

"Not gonna work," said Oz, conversationally.

"What?" Ethan asked, stupidly. The blood still throbbing in his cock prevented any more articulate response.

"Binding spell," Oz said patiently. With a subtle twist his hands were free. Ethan jerked on pure spinal reflex and tried to run. Oz's softening cock slipped free, but those nimble hands fixed on Ethan's hips and held him fast.

"Don't go," said Oz.

Ethan looked sadly at the snapped silver thread that drifted to the ground.

"Unicorn hair doesn't grow on trees, you know."

Oz grinned. "Grows on unicorns, I'm guessing."

"Very funny." Ethan cocked his head. "You don't seem…"

"Annoyed?" Oz offered.

"Homicidal," Ethan corrected.

Oz blinked slowly. "You're used to Giles. He gets testy."

Reluctantly Ethan's blood was returning to his brain. "You knew?"

Oz nodded. "Sort of. From what he said."

Ethan achieved a sneer. "What did dear Rupert say?"

"Pretty much nothing," said Oz. "A picture of you fell out of one of Giles' books. I said you looked interesting. Xander made a crack. Giles took it out of my hand, locked it up in his office, and changed the subject so hard the knob broke off in his hand."

Ethan let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Fascinating."

Oz nodded equably. "I thought it was notable."

"So when I turned up here…"

"Friend from the witch's camp gave me a Teflon top coat."

Ethan surreptitiously flexed his free hands. "And that's it? No beating? No handing me over to government thugs? I'm free to go?"

Oz shrugged. "If you want. Shame not to get what you came for, though."

Ethan jerked free. "There's no shortage of pretty boys here," he informed Oz.

"Not what I meant." Oz turned and started ambling off, and what could Ethan do but follow, fuming all the way?

****

Oz gestured around the camp site, withdrawn a little apart from the common mass, but not so far as to be noticeable. "This is yours, right?" he said.

Ethan nodded sourly.

Oz walked into Ethan's tent without asking permission, Ethan right on his heels.

Ethan tried not to be irritated. The inside of the tent was far larger and more luxurious than the outside. It should be, considering they were now actually in a disused hunting lodge somewhere in the Cotswolds, complete with roaring fire. But did Oz falter? Did he stare? No, he walked right to the bed -- _Ethan's_ bed, and lounged across it, one hand groping familiarly under the pillow.

He held up the packet of razor blades. "These for me?"

Ethan felt a petulant pout forming. "They were, yes."

Oz tossed him the packet and rolled over onto his stomach. "Still are. Got plenty of blood to spare. Just make something pretty."

Ethan was glad the boy's face was buried in feather pillows, so Oz couldn't see his jaw drop.

Oz seemed to know anyway, though. He looked back over his shoulder. "Not the first time I've been a spell component," he said. "Let a shaman shave all my fur off in Hungary. Man did that itch growing back."

Ethan caught up his chalice, pulled a razor blade from the pack, and straddled Oz's slender arse before he could change his mind. "Are you really fool enough to trust me?"

Oz shrugged and Ethan watched the play of muscle and bone. "I'm fast. Couldn't get my throat."

Ethan grinned. "I could carve Kick Me on your back in ancient Sumerian." Oz's chuckle was muffled by the pillow.

Ethan's first shallow cut sent an arc of red curling across those expressive shoulders, like calligraphy. Oz gasped and arched almost imperceptibly, and his fist closed around the rough hewn bedpost. This was _much_ better than a binding spell. Ethan could feel his erection coming back.

"Surprise me," said Oz.

To someone who worshipped Chaos, it was practically a prayer.


End file.
